


Stray Drops

by Sunfreckle



Series: Sweet like Blood, Sugar [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: Extra's and outtakes for the stories taking place in the Sweet like Blood, Sugar universe.





	1. In bites and kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Courferre with a dash of relationship history, a dash of vampire culture and a generous helping of vampire smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place the morning after Enj's awkward talk about craving "specific blood" in chapter 6 of Undead and Urban Society.

_Amsterdam, 2015_

The sun is rising over Amsterdam’s skyline, but this morning Courfeyrac has safely closed all the blinds and needn’t worry about it. He forgets to close them sometimes. Combeferre always proposes to solve this by just keeping them closed, but Courfeyrac is too fond of looking out at the life of the city.

People watching is one of his most beloved pastimes. Not so different from what he’s doing now, actually. He is sitting on the bed with his laptop, scrolling through some of his favourite blogs. It’s funny. It used to be so hard to keep up with human culture, but nowadays it’s all online.

He glances up shortly when Combeferre enters and smiles. “Enj, still up?” he asks, looking back at the collage of happy pictures on his screen.

“Yes,” Combeferre says, sounding fond. “Playing music too loudly.”

“Tsk,” Courfeyrac tuts. He sighs when he hears himself do it. “We really are his parents, aren’t we,” he grimaces.

“Just a little,” Combeferre laughs softly and he sits down on the edge of the bed.

Courfeyrac is about to put the laptop away so they can settle down for the day, when Combeferre wraps his arms around him from behind.

“New blog?” he asks.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac smiles, affectionately rubbing Combeferre’s arm. “A coupled living on a little farm. Look—”

“ _Schattig_ ,” Combeferre hums, resting his chin on Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Aren’t they?” Courfeyrac says happily. “I wonder if…they…” His voice trails off as Combeferre starts to nuzzle against his neck.

Combeferre is a very affectionate partner, but there’s something unusually deliberate in the way his lips brush over Courfeyrac’s skin. Instinctually Courfeyrac reaches back to run his fingers through Combeferre’s hair, but Combeferre catches his hand with the arm that isn’t wrapped firmly around Courfeyrac’s waist, and turns his face away to kiss his fingers.

Courfeyrac forgets to breathe when Combeferre presses the first open-mouthed kiss against his wrist. He can feel the flat of his teeth press against his skin and it makes something weak and eager twist in Courfeyrac’s midriff.

Combeferre only does this very rarely. He’s always willing to share with Courfeyrac, but his affection is much more likely to come in the form of caresses and kisses than in bites. Courfeyrac suspects that has to do with his upbringing, the thought of mixing drinking and romance had never featured in it. Courfeyrac does not mind that. He is happy to be the instigator of their sharing, but whenever Combeferre _does_ get like this. Well…

Combeferre gently scrapes his fangs over the softest part of Courfeyrac’s wrist and his desire to sigh makes Courfeyrac remember to breathe. Combeferre makes a fond sound at the shaky noise that escapes his lips and releases Courfeyrac’s hand in favour of kissing his neck again. He plants a soft kiss just below his ear and kisses down slowly, parting his lips just a little further every time.

“You know,” he murmurs, the sound of his voice sliding warmly down Courfeyrac’s spine. “I was thinking about the first time I saw you… Sitting in the theatre box across from me.”

Courfeyrac smiles, now actually pressing his fingers against the back of Combeferre’s neck. That had been in 1806. “Blessed night,” he sighs, letting the memory fill his mind. “I remember looking at you…unable to decide what I wished for most, that you were alive, or that you were like me.”

Combeferre smiles against the curve of his neck and this time he doesn’t pull away, he lets Courfeyrac feel his teeth, sweetly searching for the spot where his cold blood is locked inside his hardened artery.

Courfeyrac bites his own lip for a second and blows out a noisy breath. “What…what did you think, _mon coeur?_ ”

“I thought,” Combeferre hums, his hands coming to rest on Courfeyrac’s shoulders as he lifts his head a little, “that you were the most _distracting_ person I had ever seen.”

Pleased warmth swirls in Courfeyrac’s chest to mix with the shivers that come from Combeferre toying with his collar. He’s heard him say that countless times before, but he wants to hear him remember their first night countless times more.

“And you kept _looking_ at me,” Combeferre continues in that low, dark voice. His hands slipping down to start unbuttoning Courfeyrac’s shirt.

“Only because I wanted you to look at _me_ ,” Courfeyrac purrs. Combeferre’s fingers are moving achingly slowly and Courfeyrac needs to feel more of his teeth. He leans back against him, pushing the already forgotten laptop away from them. “And you did look at me,” he sighs.

“Of course I did,” Combeferre whispers, his breath brushing past Courfeyrac’s shoulder as he finally pulls the fine fabric of his shirt aside far enough to expose his whole neck.

Courfeyrac’s fingers tangle in the sheets of the bed on either side of him.

Combeferre presses his open mouth against his neck where his pulse might have been and Courfeyrac could beg him to bite down. Kisses, kisses, only the faintest hint of teeth.

“Ferre,” he gulps. “I want—”

Combeferre’s fangs sink into his neck and Courfeyrac keens with the sudden rush of pleasure. Combeferre’s left hand tangles into his hair, supporting his head and he drinks so eagerly that Courfeyrac feels dizzy all of a sudden. He can feel his blood start flowing like it never does on its own and it’s as if Combeferre is pulling his entire being towards him. As soon as Combeferre moves as if he might pull away Courfeyrac hastily grabs him by the back of his neck again, wordlessly begging him not to stop. Combeferre makes a low and adoring sound and drinks deeper, touching his fingertips to Courfeyrac’s lips to make him open his mouth and let him feel his fangs.

Courfeyrac kisses his hand, sinking heavier into Combeferre’s embrace until he’s not at all supporting his own weight anymore.

A soft sound of protest leaves his mouth when Combeferre’s lips leave his skin, but the scent of his own blood is suddenly so overwhelming and Combeferre is tilting his head back so lovingly that he forgets his complaints.

Combeferre’s mouth is red and his eyes are black and Courfeyrac feels like he will drown if he doesn’t get to kiss him. He lets his head fall back against Combeferre’s shoulder and opens his mouth.

Combeferre kisses him hard enough to coax a gratified moan from the back of Courfeyrac’s throat. He kisses back greedily, reaching up and behind him to grab at Combeferre. He adores being able to taste himself in Combeferre’s kisses. It’s intoxicating and reassuringly flattering all at once. It’s the most wonderful—

Combeferre’s mouth leaves his and this time Courfeyrac whines. He twists in his lover’s arms, but Combeferre holds him tighter, laughing as he brings his right wrist to his own lips.

“What, _mon coeur?_ ” he murmurs. “Did you want more kisses?”

Courfeyrac is too much transfixed by the glinting of Combeferre’s fangs as they hover above his own skin to answer properly. “Yes…” he says mindlessly. “I mean…no…”

“Monsieur de Courfeyrac wants everything at once,” Combeferre hums amusedly and his voice alone is enough to make Courfeyrac squirm, never mind the way he carefully sinks his teeth into his own wrist and lets the smell of his blood fill the air. He kisses Courfeyrac again, quick and sudden and with just a hint of that drunk-making taste on his fangs, before pulling away with a groan to firmly press his bleeding wrist to Courfeyrac’s lips.

Being fed is so very different from biting. Courfeyrac swallows eagerly, but no matter how greedily he drinks, Combeferre is in complete control. He lets Courfeyrac drink far more than they usually share and when Courfeyrac finally pulls away in response to the gentle touch on the back of his neck, he feels drowsy and drunk. The strength of Combeferre’s age is repressed by the fact that he drinks nothing but animal blood, but Courfeyrac can still taste it clearly in his blood. He presses an adoring kiss to Combeferre’s wrist, already healed without a blemish, and leans back against him with a sigh.

Combeferre gently lowers him down onto the bed, moving to stretch out next to him, lying on his side. He leans over him and gives Courfeyrac a slow, blood-mingling kiss and Courferyac feels the intensity of Combeferre’s energy is starting to fade.

Courfeyrac makes use of that by rolling over, softly pushing Combeferre onto his back instead, so he can rest partially on top of him, putting his head against his shoulder.

They lie in silence for a while. Courfeyrac can see the same drunken afterglow on Combeferre’s face that he feels nestling in his own chest. He loves seeing him like this. It’s gorgeous to see the effect his blood has on Combeferre. That dazed, saturated satisfaction that looks so pleasant on his handsome face.

When Courfeyrac lifts up his head to look at him Combeferre reaches up to brush his slightly dishevelled curls away from his face. Courfeyrac looks at him fondly, but as Combeferre retracts his hand he sees some red splotches on his sleeve. Courfeyrac glances down and sees a kiss-like smear on his collar as well.

“We got blood on our clothes,” he chuckles. “How juvenile of us.”

Combeferre smiles up at him, baring his fangs. “Terribly wasteful, he says. “But it was always the only way to leave any sort of mark on you.”

Courfeyrac can no longer remember what it felt like to blush, but being flustered will always feel hot to him, even if it’s only in his mind. “What’s gotten in to you today?” he laughs delightedly.

Instead of answering immediately, Combeferre kisses him again, tugging Courfeyrac down by his bloodstained collar. Courfeyrac hums happily against his lips and Combeferre smiles when he pulls away again.

“Something Enjolras said just reminded me of that time I first met you,” he murmurs.

Courfeyrac nestles against him again. “Did it?” he says with a smile.

“Mm.” Combeferre draws his arms a little closer around him.

It’s so long ago, Courfeyrac muses, and so much has changed since then. But not them, not this. Never this. His eyes close drowsily, but he forces them open again.

“I should change out of my clothes,” the mutters.

“Hm,” Combeferre hums. “Or you could not, and I’d get to wake up with you in my arms, bloodstained and rumpled like that evening in Paris.”

Courfeyrac finds it mildly ridiculous that he’s flustered again. No one but Combeferre ever does this to him anymore. “You’re terrible,” he says warmly, nipping gently at Combeferre’s neck.

He laughs softly, pulling Courfeyrac closer against him and Courfeyrac lets him. Never mind the wrinkled clothes.

“ _T’aime_ ,” he sighs, letting his eyes close.

“ _En ik van jou_ ,” Combeferre murmurs back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am too fond of Courferre in this universe. I had to write them again.
> 
> ....liked this? Maybe you have a suggestion for another extra in this universe? Let me know <3


	2. Museum Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little look into Enj and R's date at the museum~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt given by Deb <3

_Amsterdam, November 2015_

 

“I thought you’d be interested in the art.”

It is a little ridiculous, Enjolras thinks. They’ve barely made it up the first flight of stairs.

“I am,” Grantaire informs him, his voice muffled against Enjolras’ skin. “I’m appreciating it right now.”

Enjolras makes a scoffing sound that is rather undermined by the eager way his breath catches as Grantaire’s fangs scrape over a particular spot on his neck. His fingers dig involuntarily into Grantaire’s shoulder and Grantaire lets out a low chuckle.

“Or am I _practicing_ it?” he muses, driving Enjolras a bit further into the corner behind what must be some kind of statue, before pressing another _nearly_ biting kiss to Enjolras’ lower neck.

“You’re practicing the art of getting us kicked out of the museum the one night a year we can actually visit it,” Enjolras groans.

He shivers at Grantaire’s next kiss, but he pushes at his chest to make him stop all the same.

“R, don’t.”

Grantaire draws back of course, but not without an obnoxious grin. “Why?” he teases. “It’s not like they can see us on the camera’s.” And he blows a kiss at the camera scanning the area they’re currently hiding in.

Enjolras knows there is no way either of them will be recognisable. At worst the footage will look like it’s been tampered with, but even that won’t raise too many eyebrows. Combeferre is a known and respected donor to the museum and there’s at least one ally working in the security management, but that is not the _point_. Enjolras refuses to be caught making out in a dark corner like a damn teenager, no matter how attractive Grantaire is making that option right now.

“You’re going to have to end up choosing between seeing Rembrandt or Van Gogh,” he warns.

Grantaire gives him a dismayed look. “No need to resort to fear tactics.”

Reluctantly, he steps away, waiting for Enjolras to fix his hair.

Enjolras rolls his eyes slightly at him, fondly taking him by his hand to pull him down the corridor. “Come on, you can tell me about all the paintings.”

“But you’ve been here before,” Grantaire protests.

“Yeah, but you’re actually into this stuff,” Enjolras says.

“Okay, but I’m no tour guide.”

Enjolras smiles. Like the quality of the information has anything to do with how much he’ll enjoy listening to Grantaire rant. And besides, he knows nothing about art. Nor does he feel particularly strongly about it, at least not often. Grantaire, however, has a _lot_ of feelings…

 

“Just _look_ at the _candle_ _light!_ ”

Enjolras watches amusedly how Grantaire goes from painting to painting with what he can only describe as angry admiration. Grantaire takes art personally in a way Enjolras has never really encountered before.

Grantaire’s face contorts, looking pleadingly at Enjolras before scowling at another painting. “Look at the damn _shadows_.”

Enjolras looks up at the painting. It’s skilful, masterful, but he thinks that of pretty much everything they’ve seen so far.

Grantaire sighs heavily. “Rembrandt was a genius… Bastard.”

Enjolras hums, blinking at something that he thinks Grantaire just called ‘chiaroscuro’. “Ferre says he was nice,” he says absentmindedly.

Beside him, Grantaire goes quiet. “…what.”

Enjolras looks at him. Grantaire’s expressive face is strangely blank.

“Rembrandt,” Enjolras clarifies. “Ferre says he was a nice guy, overall. Bad with money though.”

Something frantically incredulous stirs on Grantaire’s face. “You’re not trying to tell me—” he croaks, “—that Combeferre _knew_ Rembrandt.”

Judging from his expression this is a bigger deal to him than Enjolras had considered it would be. “…I think he has one of his works in his study,” he says cautiously.

Grantaire tries to speak without having actually remembered to breathe in and makes a strange, gasping sound. “Enjolras,” he says hoarsely, looking _worryingly_ grave for a moment. “We need to have a talk about honesty in our relationship.”

 

It takes a kiss in front of the Vermeers for Grantaire to stop going on about honestly and betrayal. Enjolras fears the worst for Combeferre, who has no such tactics at his disposal and who – Enjolras is pretty sure – will be subjected to a _passionate_ interrogation as soon as they get home.

Well, maybe not immediately. Not if Enjolras can persuade Grantaire up to his bedroom first. Out of consideration for Combeferre, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why the HELL didn't you tell me???"  
> "That would be boasting, wouldn't it."  
> "Ferre, can you leave your bullshit Calvinist modisty out of it when it comes to telling me about undiscovered bloody Rembrandts."  
> "Well, in that case I suggest you ask Courf to tell you about him and Delacroix."  
> "...I will stake the both of you."


	3. Parisian Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre and Courfeyrac's first kiss...

_Paris, 1806_

 

Combeferre has always found that truly good music has the quality of following one out of the concert hall. Of lingering and commanding attention a little longer than it should.

Tonight’s concert, splendid as it was, had little hope of succeeding in that respect. Not because either the musicians or the conductor were in any way at fault, but because their performance would have to compete with M. Courfeyrac. And when it came to commanding his attention, Combeferre feared there had never been as single person so adept at it.

“Well, Monsieur,” Courfeyrac said pleasantly as they both moved to leave the concert hall. “I could tell you enjoyed the performance, but as your enjoyment always comes accompanied by some critique or analysis, I shall not be easy until I have heard your full opinion.”

Combeferre smiled at him. Courfeyrac was dressed in deep blue tonight, his dark hair arranged in the latest style, as always. He was quite ten times as attractive as any other young man attending. ” I have no critique to give, I assure you.”

“No, no, Monsieur. You shall not evade me,” Courfeyrac pressed, his dark eyes lighting up under Combeferre’s admiring gaze. “Do not think I will be offended on behalf of my countrymen, tell me everything.”

Combeferre opened his mouth to protest, but as they joined the crowd pouring out towards the street, Courfeyrac so resolutely linked his arm with his that Combeferre forgot what he was even protesting against. He fell into a somewhat confused silence. The weeks that had passed since he first met Courfeyrac had been the most extraordinary of his unlife. Courfyerac was the most entrancing person he had ever met. His Sire had warned him that the French vampires conducted their affairs quite differently, but no French vampire had captivated him like Courfeyrac.

Corufeyrac, who seemed to require a play or a concert every other night and who filled his house with young people of arts and fashion – regardless of their mortality – on the days he chose to stay at home.

Being with Courfeyrac was being in a whirl of gayety, filled with too many people and impression for Combeferre to still tell the days apart. He had come to Paris to study the culture, to make use of its libraries and speak to fellow students of the sciences. He could possibly classify his friendship with Courfeyrac under the former, but only if he took a rather broader definition of ‘study’ than he was used to doing.

At present, it was clearly him that was being studied, by Courfeyrac’s laughing eyes. “You will allow me to convey you home, will you not? Me having a carriage at my disposal and having brought you so very far from your lodgings I must be the gentleman now.”

Combeferre hesitated. Courfeyrac had offered him the use of his carriage before, but he had always declined it. He had sufficient funds to hire a coach whenever he needed it and more often than not he preferred to walk. It was true they were a little more out of the way this night, however, and declining Coufeyrac’s invitation would mean separating from him now. Between the soft hand pressing his arm and the dark eyes fixed on his this was a task Combeferre was not equal to.

“That would be very much appreciated.”

The warmth of Courfeyrac’s smile alone should be enough reason to give in to him. Combeferre found himself seated in his friend’s carriage with very little idea of how exactly he had got there.

“Such a crush,” Courferyac puffed, leaning back in the seat opposite him. “The living do make a crowd.”

“Did you see any of your set among them?” Combeferre asked, merely to make conversation. Being shut up with Courfeyrac in so small a space was rather distracting. It shouldn’t be, since all there was to fix his attention was Courfeyrac. It seemed nonsensical that Courfeyrac’s closeness could distract him from his own conversation, but somehow it was.

“Only one,” Courfeyrac shook his head, jostling his curls. “But that does remind me. I should introduce you to Madame Boivin, she is such a light of the medical world, you simply must meet her.”

“I would like that exceedingly,” Combeferre replied, but actually, what he would truly like to do, was kiss Courfeyrac.

The thought rather surprised him, but now he had got hold of it the wish only seemed to grow stronger. And Courferyac, with his fashionable curls and his large brown eyes, was looking back at him coyly.

“Why do you keep looking at me so, Monsieur? You really shouldn’t.”

Combeferre was suddenly reminded of the very first time he saw Courfeyrac, sitting in a theatre box across from him. In this moment he was looking at him in exactly the same way, except with none of the distance to divide them.

“Why should I not?” Combeferre didn’t think about the words, he was too preoccupied with the unrest stirring in his undead body. It was as if absolutely all his senses were attuned to Courfeyrac and suddenly Combeferre understood. He had never been alone with him. Never truly alone. There had been private conversations, quiet walks, but always out in the open. It was not that courfeyrac was at present distracting to him, it was just that final, for the first time, therew as nothing at all to distract him  _from_  Courfeyrac.

“Because,” Courfeyrac answered, after what seemed far too long a pause of staring eyes. “I am beginning to fear that look is all you will ever do.”

It was amazing to Combeferre how natural it felt to reach out for Courfeyrac and slide next to him onto his seat. His arms fit around Courfeyrac’s waist easily and the bright flicker of joy on his friends’ face was enough encouragement for Combeferre to lean in closer. Close enough to see every spec of light in his eyes. A similar joy was dancing in his own chest.

“What would you have me do instead?” he asked.

Courfeyrac’s lashes fluttered up for a second, to give him a single accusatory look, but a moment later he had already seized Combeferre by the collar and pulled him into a kiss.

Kissing Courfeyrac was easier, far easier, than it ought to be for a man who hadn’t kissed anyone in over a century. Combeferre didn’t exactly take the time to consider this, however. His fingers were playing through Courfeyrac’s flawless curls, something only just now realised he had been wanting to do almost since the moment he first laid eyes on him.

The coach rattled and jostled, but neither one of them paid it any mind, only drawing closer. They kiss was quiet, warm and breathless, and it filled Combeferre’s entire consciousness. He had been alive, well, in existence, for over two centuries, and no one has  _ever_ made him—

At that moment his fangs touched to Courfeyrac’s lower lip without his intending them to and Courfeyrac let out a soft, keening noise that seemed to pull directly on Combeferre’s midriff. He tilted his head, anxious not to injure Courfeyrac, and kissed him a little more carefully.

Courfeyrac made another noise, but before Combeferre could place it, the coach made a rather sudden turn.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac groaned softly against Combeferre’s lips, his voice muffled and endearingly reluctant. 

To spare him the trial of his self-control, Combeferre gently pulled out of the kiss first, smiling when Courfeyrac immediately clung to him. He was tugging on his now rather creased shirt as if he was afraid Combeferre would slip away from him as soon as he let him go. In a moment of united vanity and embarrassment Combeferre wondered exactly how long Courfeyrac had been trying to persuade him towards this moment.

“I know it’s early,” Courfeyrac breathed, barely putting enough distance between them to look Combeferre in the eye. “But…if we were to divert our route to my house instead of your rooms, you might stay the day?”

Something about the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes made Combeferre feel like his heart could still beat, if only for a second. Courfeyrac was possibly the brightest creature of the night he had ever met. He swallowed, his expression already full of the answer his lips had not yet formed.

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for Burntblackfeathers, for all her kindness and enthusiasm <3
> 
> (to truly finish this piece it actually needs a time-skip and some relationship talk but I'm too busy to do that justice, soon, hopefully)


	4. A Lost Youngling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before he was the first among equals of the vampire community, Enjolras was a starved runaway. That is how Combeferre and Courfeyrac found him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feyland is stirring up all my vampire feelings, so I finally finished this old draft~

 

_Amsterdam, 2006_

 

Combeferre has never quite understood how Courfeyrac can tell vampires from humans on sight alone. Yes, there are tells, but especially from a distance they are often not directly visible. Courfeyrac always picks up on it though. It must have something to do with his natural intuition.

This is why the two of them are currently strolling idly behind a young man that looks like he has been travelling and sleeping rough for just a bit too long. Combeferre would never have pegged him for a vampire, precisely because he looks so very bad. But Courfeyrac insists he is and _if_ he is, that could be _very_ dangerous. The boy is walking unsteadily and the few glimpses Combeferre has gotten of his face showed him nothing but hollowed eyes and grey complexion, still mostly hidden by dirty blonde hair. If this is a vampire, he must be famished. They can’t have someone like that roaming their city. The stranger seems to be walking at random and Courfeyrac and Combeferre do not follow too closely. They shouldn’t spook him.

Courfeyrac is watching very closely though, with his usually smiling face very tense.

“He’ll go straight ahead there,” he mutters, leaning towards Combeferre as they walk. “I can cut though the alley and head him off?”

Combeferre doesn’t like this sort of thing, but needs must. “Very well,” he sighs. “Quickly then.”

Courfeyrac nods and a moment later his arm slips out of Combeferre’s and he disappears down the alley. Combeferre keeps walking, his eyes on the young man ahead, and waits.

“Hey there!”

The boy stops in his tracks as soon as Courfeyrac addresses him and Combeferre quickens his pace.

“I was just—”

“Get away from me!”

The French takes them both by surprise, but Courfeyrac switches to his native language immediately. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

But the boy isn’t listening. “I’m not going back!” he spits. “Get **_away_**.”

The force of his Presence hits far too hard for a starved vampire. Courfeyrac stumbles backwards and Combeferre is by his side immediately. He hasn’t used his Presence since 1987, but this it’s not a skill that rusts.

“ ** _Calm down_**.”

The young man abruptly shuts his mouth, but Combeferre can feel he is fighting. He doubts he has a lot of time.

“ **Let us help you** ,” he urges.

Two blue eyes stare frantically at him. The fear in them is jarring.

“You’re starved,” Combeferre says heavily. He lets the Presence drain out of his voice, but attempts with all his might to keep his hold on the stranger. “You will attack someone out of hunger. We can’t let that happen.”

The boy blinks. Combeferre is still holding him in place, but struggle suddenly feels less.

“You…” the boy stammers. “You don’t kill?”

“Never,” Courfeyrac says solemnly and Combeferre feels the weight behind the words. Courfeyrac has killed, way back when.

“Are you from France, the South?” Courfeyrac asks. “You’re a strongblood, aren’t you?”

Combeferre can feel it too. This boy’s Presence is uncommonly strong, but it feels unhinged. He’s young. Very young.

The blue eyes flit between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, silent and suspicious.

“We don’t hunt,” Courfeyrac says gently. “And no one sent us after you. We want to help.”

“I can’t… I can’t drink from animals,” the stranger mutters. There is shame in his young voice, and panic at the edge of it.

“There are other ways to feed humanely,” Combeferre says seriously and he lets his Presence wane.  “Please come with us.”

“Let us help you,” Courfeyrac pleads.

Combeferre waits with his mind and body ready to act. If the stranger refuses, they’ll have to force him into submission. Under no circumstances will Combeferre allow a starved youngling _strongblood_ to wander his city.

The boy’s shoulders sag and he mutters something in exhausted agreement. Combeferre can feel Courfeyrac’s surge of relief as well as his own.

“What’s your name?” Courfeyrac asks, very carefully putting a hand on his arm to make him walk with them.

Combeferre walks on his other side, exchanging a single concerned glance with Courfeyrac.

The muttered answer is indistinguishable.

“I’m sorry, Cherie, I didn’t hear that.”

“You don’t have to tell us,” Combeferre suggests gently.

The blonde head raises. “Enjolras.”

“Alright then, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

…

The sun has already risen behind the carefully closed window blinds by the time that Combeferre has an opportunity to speak to Courfeyrac alone again. Enjolras, washed, fed and dressed in clean clothes (Combeferre’s, Courfeyrac’s would never fit him), is looking over the room they managed to persuade him to take for the night.

“Are you alright, mon coeur?” Courfeyrac asks, slipping an arm around Combeferre’s waist.

“Are you?” he asks in return. He is a little shaken from having to use his Presence, but Courfeyrac seemed much more affected by what little they managed to get Enjolras to tell them about his life in France.

“Fine,” Courfeyrac assures him. “As long as he stays.”

Combeferre has to admit that the thought of someone like Enjolras being adrift, even well fed and well rested, is rather terrifying.

“We got lucky,” he says gravely. “If I hadn’t drunk form you recently I’m not sure my Presence would have been stronger than his.”

Courfeyrac gives him a startled look. “You really think so?”

Combeferre nods. The idea that a youngling, a _starved_ youngling, might be stronger than an elder –even an animal-fed one like himself – is nothing short of frightening.

There is a short silence between them before Courfeyrac breaks it by breathing shakily:

“How _dare_ they.” His voice is twisted with empathy and fury. “Ferre, imagine what they _did_ to him.”

Combeferre nods and pulls Courfeyrac a little closer. They are not yet sure what exactly happened to Enjolras, but it’s clear that he fled from his sire. The fact that he’s a strongblood and therefore had to have been turned consensually makes that all the more disconcerting.

“He has agreed to stay for now,” Combeferre says earnestly. “We’ll do our best to help him.”

“He’s so bright,” Courfeyrac says. “He’s only 8 years turned, and at his age too…”

“You were only two years older at turning,” Combeferre points out.

“It wasn’t the same back then,” Courfeyrac protests.

Combeferre smiles faintly. He knows it wasn’t, but still.

There is a knock on the living room door and Enjolras appears. Courfeyrac and Combeferre both blink, having to adjust to the sight. Enjolras does not look exactly comfortable in Combeferre’s clothes, but he looks worlds different from the half-faded boy staggering in the street. The blue of his eyes seems to have brightened and his skin has lost its ashen dullness for something oddly reminiscent of marble. His hair, washed and dried, is a mass of fluffy golden curls that Combeferre can see are making Courfeyrac’s hands itch. If Enjolras stays, Courfeyrac will be dragging him along to his hairdresser before long.

“How are you feeling?” Courfeyrac asks kindly, immediately guiding Combeferre towards the couch. “Shall we all sit down for a moment?”

“Much better, thank you,” Enjolras says, slightly embarrassedly. He sits down in a chair facing the sofa Courfeyrac has chosen and Combeferre wonders what he could possibly do to put Enjolras at ease.

“We’ve plagued you with a lot of questions,” he says. Not that they got many of them answered, he adds privately. “Do you have any for us?”

Enjolras gives him an uncertain look. “I was wondering… From what-” He grimaces. “When were you turned?”

“Seventeen fifty-two,” Courfeyrac answers readily. “In France, but I think I already told you that.”

“And I was turned in 1623,” Combeferre says. “Right here in this house.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen slightly. “You’re older than my sire…”

Combeferre smiles. “I’m not a strongblood. And I feed almost exclusively on animals, that takes the edge off my strength a bit.”

“You…you’ve really lived here all this time. And you feed only on animals?”

Combeferre nods. “That’s not at all unusual here,” he says. “Although an arrangement with wards like Courfeyrac’s is very common too.”

A deeply uncomfortable look passes across Enjolras’ face. It had taken a lot of convincing, from both Combeferre and Courfeyrac, to get Enjolras to drink some of the blood that one of Courfeyrac’s mistresses donated. He hadn’t agreed until Courfeyrac had taken out some of the pictures he had taken of the five of them, laughing and pulling faces at the camera. Some of them with his own blurry, badly lit shape in frame as well. From what he let slip in between questions about how often Courfeyrac drank from his wards, it became clear that he wasn’t used to them being treated as autonomous people. The name ‘ward’ seemed new to him as well.

Enjolras glances between the two of them and the caution on his face gives way a little in favour of some kind of sudden determination. “Are there a lot of you?” he asks. “Vampires that live like you do?”

“In Amsterdam?” Combeferre asks. “A fair few.”

“The Dutch community is smaller than in France,” Courfeyrac says. He smiles. “But we have some good friends here.” He waits for a hesitant moment. “You could meet some of them if you like.”

Combeferre can see a healthy curiosity on Enjolras’ face, but it’s liberally mixed with something that is unmistakably hope. For a moment Combeferre feels a flash of pure anger. Then he resolutely lets go of it and says:

“The variety of vampire cultures across European history is actually rather fascinating. My sire spent a century or so cataloguing some of the main developments and differences. I have copies of all his notes. Perhaps you’d like to look over them sometime.”

Enjolras’ head lifts. His eyes really are rather impossibly bright. “I would,” he says and his voice is steady. He looks at Courfeyrac. “And I’d like to meet your friends. And your…wards. If I may.”

“They are all part of the same group,” Courfeyrac says pleasantly and Enjolras smiles. A little incredulously still, uncertainly too, but it’s a smile, and it makes a world of difference.

Combeferre glances at Courfeyrac. Maybe, with curiosity for an excuse, they might persuade Enjolras to stay.

****


	5. That Evening in Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Hm,” Combeferre hums. “Or you could not, and I’d get to wake up with you in my arms, bloodstained and rumpled like that evening in Paris.”_
> 
>  
> 
> Ages ago Tia yelled at me: “WHAT EVENING IN PARIS”
> 
> Well, _this_ evening in Paris~

 

 

_Paris, 1807_

 

It was the dancing. The Dutch don’t dance, everyone knew that. Combeferre had certainly never danced in public, not like that. Even now, with the cold night air soft against his skin, it seemed to him that he could feel every single point where Courfeyrac had pressed against him.

The feeling stayed with him all during the walk back to his lodgings, with Courfeyrac leaning affectionately on his arm and talking in as hushed a tone as he could manage of what a wonderful night it had been.

As he watched Courfeyrac dart up the narrow stairs in front of him, there was suddenly the inexplicable urge to chase after him. Combeferre refrained from acting upon it, instead observing how Courfeyrac’s warm chatter seemed to light up every space around him.

Combeferre’s attic rooms were sober, simple, but compared to Courfeyrac’s glittering town house they were downright shabby. Courfeyrac paid it no mind, however. He threw himself down on the faded sofa with as much ease and enjoyment as he did on his own velvet chaise longue.

“I will make a dancer out of you yet,” he laughed up at Combeferre, his large eyes shining.

Looking down at him Combeferre distantly thought that he had never, ever, seen a person as beautiful as Courfeyrac. “You say that as if your plans extend beyond making me dance with you.”

“They do indeed,” Courfeyrac grinned. “I also intend to kiss you every time you do.” And he sat up from his temporary sprawl to pull Combeferre towards him by his coattails.

Courfeyrac’s kiss was sweet, but Combeferre followed it by a deeper, much more eager one. His hands were on Courfeyrac’s waist again, where they had been during the dancing, but when he had not been at liberty to do any of this. Courfeyrac made a soft noise of pleased surprise and readily pulled him closer, until Combeferre was forced to plant one knee into the sofa to support himself. This did nothing to even out their difference in height, however, and Combeferre had the pleasure of tipping back Courfeyrac’s head with a caressing hand in his curls.

Courfeyrac made a pleasant little squirming motion when he dug his fingers in a little and Combeferre felt a laugh stir warmly in his chest that he could not give voice to for lack of breath. He never remembered to breathe when kissing Courfeyrac.

With an indulgent parting of his lips, pulling away just enough to hear Courfeyrac murmur, Combeferre drew breath.

He was not prepared for the rush of scents suddenly flooding his mind. It was not just the faint perfume clinging to Courfeyrac’s skin it was _all of him_. Ridiculous as it was Combeferre couldn’t fight the impression that he could smell Courfeyrac’s smile, his touch, his _being_ — His blood.

A soft, hungry sound spilled from Combeferre’s lips and Courfeyrac’s dark eyes lifted to his face with something like surprise and for a moment Combeferre felt a faint echo of the embarrassment he had been forced to confront earlier in their courtship. Courfeyrac was forward, romantic, and so passionate. He had surprised Combeferre with the desire to bite as well as kiss him. Barely fifty years dead to Combeferre’s near two hundred and _he_ had been the one to murmur explanations about love and blood and sharing.

They had made it work. Courfeyrac would neither rush nor demand from him and Combeferre had found a wondrous kind of pleasure in letting Courfeyrac kiss his wrists and neck and grow amorously drunk on him until he wanted nothing but to lie in Combeferre’s arms and hide his face against his chest.

But he had never _understood_ – not like he did now – the all-encompassing yearning to taste even just a single drop of the essence of all that he loved in Courfeyrac on his tongue.

It was a feeling so heady it was breathing a haze into his mind that for a moment blocked out everything but Courfeyrac’s eyes gazing up at him.

Gently, almost cautiously, his fingers brushed the silk of Courfeyrac’s cravat. “May I?”

Courfeyrac’s lips parted just a little, as if voicing a silent question, but all he did was nod, his eyes never leaving Combeferre’s.

Leaning over Courfeyrac, Combeferre slowly unwound his cravat, caressing his neck as he did so. To undress Courfeyrac, always so flawlessly dressed, was like being granted forbidden favours. In his crisp shirtsleeves and bright waistcoat, Courfeyrac was all colour and fashion and Combeferre felt like he was uncovering far too well-hidden secrets as he pulled his starched collar aside.

Combeferre had barely lowered his head to press a kiss to Courfeyrac’s jaw and Courfeyrac already tipped his head to the side. He kissed down Courfeyrac’s neck, searching for the spot that had always made his lover’s back arch slightly whenever he had kissed it before.

His lips pressed against the spot where once a pulse must have been hidden just below the surface and the slightest, keening sound, escaped from Courfeyrac’s throat.

Combeferre’s arms were already wrapped around him, already keeping him close, in a position he’d be hard pressed to escape. One more time, through the haze warmly clouding his mind, he murmured, but in a tone of voice far darker than before:

“…may I?”

“ _Yes_ —” Courfeyrac’s voice was heavy with eagerness and with the same urgency of feeling his fingers found purchase on Combeferre’s coat.

As Combeferre opened his mouth against Courfeyrac’s skin, he was once more keenly aware that he had never done this before, but just then a shiver of anticipation went through Courfeyrac’s body and the blind, enamoured instinct that had brought him this far, took over again.

Sinking his teeth into Courfeyrac’s neck was as natural and easy as kissing his lips.

...

Whatever fantasies Courfeyrac had secretly indulged in during his more desirous moments, they were paling in comparison. His head swam, incapable of being conscious of anything except the sensation of being wrapped up in Combeferre’s embrace, with his lips locked to his neck, and the pressure of his teeth driven down deep enough to strike a chord inside what had to be his soul.

The pressure lifted and Courfeyrac let out a whimper, squirming in Combeferre’s arms and clinging to him to press as much of his own body against his as the slow, intoxicating pull of flowing blood brought him in an even further state of insensibility.

Combeferre made a noise, a low, adoring, _drunken_ hum and it was all Courfeyrac could do not to beg him to drink deeper.

This was the first time, the first time Combeferre had _ever_ bitten him and it was… Oh Courfeyrac had felt himself loved by Combeferre, admired, treasured, adored. But to be _hungered for_ like this. He had not required it. Had not even truly desired it. But now it was given to him, he was completely overwhelmed by it.

He barely noticed that Combeferre was lowering him down onto the couch more and more, supporting his weight and leaning over him deeply, still drinking at in a slow, steady and relentless way that made Courfeyrac imagine he could feel his lover pulling on his very heart.

It was the scent of his own blood suddenly filling the air that roused Courfeyrac from his haze of bliss. “Ferre…” he whined, grabbing at Combeferre’s clothes to protest his pulling away.

Combeferre would not let himself be pulled back, but his voice made Courfeyrac falter.

“Oh how you taste,” he breathed, his voice lower and more melodic than Courfeyrac had ever heard it sound. And then a laugh, so warm and full of affection that Courfeyrac could feel it glowing on his cheeks. “I have not been drunk since 1637—”

In that moment, Combefere’s voice was almost as intoxicating as his touch and Courfeyrac was about to answer him, say every single pretty word he felt such an occasion called for, when he turned enough for Courfeyrac to catch a glimpse of his face in the dark. He was stood beside the sofa now, and Courfeyrac, stretched out on its faded pillows, looked up at him breathlessly. Combeferre looked back at him, his eyes near black, and Courfeyrac stared at him. At his wet mouth, at the red staining his dark skin.

Courfeyrac could feel his own eyes darken with want and Combeferre smiled, fangs glinting.

The weak, begging sound that passed Courfeyrac’s lips was completely involuntary, and mercifully it was barely a moment later that Combeferre hauled him up off the couch, took him in his arms, and allowed Courfeyrac to kiss him, with utter, _joyful_ desperation, before carrying him off to his bed.


End file.
